The Fifth Sunday in Lent - John 11:1-45 - The Rev. Colette Hammesfahr

 

March 22, 2026 – John 11:1-45

    People were standing on a subway platform in New York City when someone suddenly fell onto the tracks. Everyone around saw it happen. People moved closer to the edge and looked down at the tracks. Some people shouted. Some people gasped. One person pointed down the tunnel—the train was coming. And then for a moment, everyone froze. It wasn’t because they didn’t care. It was because no one knew what to do. Some thought, “I should help.” Others thought, “Someone else will jump down.” A few stepped forward to the edge, and then they stepped back. Later, people were asked about the event and how they reacted. They were painfully honest in their responses. “I didn’t know if I could get back up.” “I thought someone else would do it.” “I was afraid I would make things worse.” It wasn’t that the people didn’t care. What they did in that moment is what mattered most; no one moved. Why didn’t they do something?

    That’s a question that sits with us in the story of Lazarus. Everyone is there at the tomb, looking on – Mary, Martha, the neighbors, family, and friends. A giant rock covers the entrance. People are crying. People care deeply about what has happened. There’s a heavy feeling that nothing can be done. It’s too late. He is dead. Martha says, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Why didn’t he do something?

    In our Old Testament reading, Ezekiel is brought to a valley. Not a valley of people who are struggling or people who are wounded. He’s been brought to a valley of dry bones. There is no coming back from this…these people aren’t almost dead. It’s not that they may be recoverable; they are finished. Then, God asks a question, “Can these bones live?” Like the people standing on the platform and the people standing at the entrance to the tomb, we think the answer is, “This is all over. Why should we do something?”  

    In our Psalm for today, we read, “Out of the depths have I called to you, O Lord; Lord, hear my voice.” We are standing at the edge of the subway platform at that moment before anyone moves, “Lord, hear my voice.” It’s a cry without a resolution. Standing at the entrance to the tomb, “Lord, hear my voice.” It's a cry without a resolution.

    Many of us have felt at one time in their life, or maybe you feel it right now --  like we are standing at the edge of that subway platform, crying “Lord, hear my voice.” We feel like it is a cry without a resolution. It’s that moment before anyone moves. We feel like we already know what’s going to happen. The outcome is clear to us, so we quietly say, “There’s nothing that can be done.” We accept that this is just the way it is from now on. When something feels final in our lives, we don’t act. We don’t move. We wait. We hesitate.

    When Jesus arrives at the tomb, he is met with grief. Martha greets him not with words of encouragement but with words of pain. “Lord, if you had been here.” Jesus doesn’t try to console the people. He doesn’t apologize to Lazarus’ family. He stands there, and he cries. He sits with them in their pain and in their loss. And then he says, “Take away the stone.” Martha thinks this is ridiculous. Why would Jesus want the stone moved? Lazarus has been dead for so long; surely there is an odor. The last thing we want is to move that stone. Finally, after much waiting and hesitation, the people move the stone. I wonder why they hesitated. Maybe it’s because they have already decided that what’s behind the stone is dead. It’s final. It’s just the way it will be from now on. There’s nothing that can be done.

    One of our parishioners was talking about some plants that she has. She said that this one plant in particular was beyond all hope. All the leaves were sagging and brown. It was surely dead. She sent me a picture of the plant, and it looked pretty bad. Honestly, it looked way beyond saving. She was ready to throw it away but before she did, I asked her to bring it to me. I cut the plant back. When I cut into a few of the stems, they were still green inside. There was still life there – hidden, but real. I sent her a picture and said, “There is a sign of life!! Give me a couple of months and I’ll get it back to you.”

    I imagine that is what the moment in John’s Gospel felt like. Everyone is standing there, all they see is a tomb and a stone, and they know it’s been four days. They are saying, “This is over. It is hopeless.” But Jesus sees something deeper. Life is still present where no one expects it. For Ezekiel, those bones look just as gone. But God doesn’t ask him, “Do these bones look alive?” God asks, “Can these bones live?”
Maybe this is why we don’t do anything when things get so bad in our lives that we just give up. We’ve already decided something is dead. Maybe it’s a relationship, a situation, a person, or even a part of ourselves. We look at the outside, and we assume there’s nothing left to do.

    In Paul’s letter to the Romans, he tells them that the Spirit is life. The same Spirit that raised Jesus from the dead is still at work. Not just in the past and not just someday, but now, in the places that look all dried up, sealed, and finished.
I’ve been repeating this same question today, “Why didn’t they do something?” Maybe the better question is, “What have we already given up on?” Resurrection is God’s work. Jesus still turns to those hurting, grieving, unsure, and hesitant people and says, “Take away the stone.” In a few months, I’ll bring the plant back, and it will look different. Alive again. And it’s not because I created life. It’s because life was already there, waiting. All it takes is care, nurturing, and faith.

    I think about the subway platform, the moment before anyone moved. It was a moment when everything felt too fast, too final, and too overwhelming. I wonder how often we find ourselves standing in that same place. We look at something in our lives and say, “It’s too late. There’s nothing that can be done.”

    But our faith tells a different story. It’s a story of a valley of bones that breathes again. A voice crying out from the depths that is heard. A tomb that is opened. It’s a story where what looks finished…isn’t. Where what may feel final…is not the end. Because we have a Savior who stands in front of what we have already called dead and says, “Take away the stone.”

    Where in your life have you already decided that something is dead when God is still saying, “There is life here.” Take away the stone. Cut back the brown and see the green. Not because we are certain. Not because we know how it will turn out. But because God is still at work. Even there. And when that moment comes – that moment when everything in you wants to stand still, to step back, to say, “It’s too late”… move. Amen.